Lucky
by Grim Lupine
Summary: Sometimes it amazes him, how incredibly lucky he is. oneshot JackDavid


Disclaimer: These characters do not belong to me.

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Sometimes it amazes him, how incredibly lucky he is.

When he lies awake at night, ear pressed to David's heart, the drumroll _thump, thump, thump _echoing through his body. Moonlight filters through the window, setting David's pale skin glowing, highlighting the shadow under an eye, the curve of an ear, washing down vulnerable neck and wiry-strong arms. Jack splays his hand across the warm expanse of David's stomach, timing his breaths so they fall with the ones rasping in his ear, _inhale_, _exhale_, until sleep calls him down with gentle arms.

When he wakes in the morning, eyes still closed, and he can feel David's gaze on him, heavy like a blanket. It stands his hair on end and sends a trembling down the length of his spine, and he stretches, arches into David's body even as he blinks his eyes open. The look on David's face is one he will never tire of: bone-deep love and warmth, with an unmistakable touch of awe, of _how is it I get to have this_, that hasn't changed at all in the last ten years. Jack doesn't know how to tell David that it is _he_ who is so blessed.

When he comes home late from whatever job he has at the moment, weary, feet leaden, and he can hear David's distracted humming before he even opens the door. With that sound alone, he feels lighter, and when David turns as the door opens and smiles at him, reaching a hand out to pull him close, Jack feels as if he has shed ten pounds. He rests his face in the curve of David's neck, breathing in the scent of soap and ink and a trace of sweat, mumbling a hello into his skin and tangling their hands together. _This is mine_, he thinks, eyes prickling with what must be exhaustion. David reaches up to cup the back of his neck with one broad hand, and they stand there, swaying together to the sound of invisible music.

When he rolls over in the middle of the night, his questing hand unable to find the warm body that should be next to him, and he rubs his eyes tiredly and stands. He walks into the kitchen and sees David sprawled across the table, head on his hands, stacked pile of neatly written papers next to him. There is ink smudged over fingers and nose, and Jack knows that when he wakes David, he will find ink, dark on his lips, where David has raised a nail-bitten hand to his mouth again and again, deep in the unyielding grip of his writing. Jack stares at him, tracing his form with his eyes. He never knew it was possible to love someone so much, but David has always pushed him farther than he ever thought he could go. David mumbles when Jack lays a hand on his shoulder, and he blinks blearily and confusedly at him, but he follows Jack's leading hand, stumbling slightly along the way, and when Jack pushes him down onto the bed, he turns into Jack's side and sleeps as if he had never been awake.

When he starts to feel that itch, that niggling sensation that turns his eyes to the far skies, that paints a picture of freedom and open air and wide blue expanses of sky. He starts to wonder what his life could have been like had he left that day after the strike. Jack, above all, hates the thought of fate, of something else controlling his life, of himself as a puppet, held dangling by the strings. Wordlessly, David comes to stand by him, his gaze nothing but understanding. "Let's walk," he says. The two of them walk the streets as the sun raises its head, firing up the sky in shades of scarlet and gold; they walk until Jack's feet are aching and his mind is less clouded, no longer buzzing with distracting sensation. He lets out a breath that rings of relief; _Love you, Davey_, he doesn't say, still awkward about saying it outside of their bedroom, but David turns and smiles softly at him as if he heard anyway.

When David fights with him, strangely enough. David's mouth twists and his tongue goes sword-sharp, and he runs his hands through his hair in utter frustration. Jack, in comparison, goes silent and brooding, and they take opposite sides of the house for the remainder of the day. But when night falls, quiet and black, when Jack stretches himself out on the bed, staring sightlessly up at the ceiling, David comes to lie next to him, taking Jack's hand without a word. They lie together in silence, until David breaks it. "It's only a fight, Jack," he says whisper-soft. "I've put up with you this long; you think I'll give up now? You think I could, when I can't even bear to go to sleep angry with you?" Jack closes his eyes, throat tight. David draws him in and presses their foreheads together. "Love you," David says, because David is a friend of words and he can say things like that without a thought. Jack doesn't make the mistake of thinking it insincere, though; it's in the comforting, familiar grip David has on the back of Jack's neck, in the hitching inhale of his breath. It's in all the things that spell so plainly that they belong to each other, so intertwined it is difficult to tell where one ends and one begins. "M'lucky," David mumbles, drifting off to sleep.

Jack smiles.

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